Before I had a chance to give Attitude, she grabbed my hand. "I am Auntie Bopha. From Kampuchea. You say Cambodia."
I had never met anyone from Cambodia before. They speak an Austroasiatic language, similar to Thai, with a distinctive writing system. It wouldn't hurt to have a conversation. "Hi, I'm Jeff."
"You got job?"
What kind of cruise line was that? "Um..yes, I work for Muscle and Fitness, and I'm in grad school at USC, working toward my doctorate in..."
"Oh, muscle, good. And doctor, good, good! Cure AIDS, maybe?"
"No, I won't be that kind of..."
"Get AIDS test?"
"Yes, I'm HIV negative, but..."
"Like get drunk?"
"No, this is just soda, but...."
Her hand clamped onto my crotch. "Oh, big basket! Good, good, good!"
"What the heck are you doing?" I angrily pried her hand off and started to walk away.
She grabbed my arm. "Wait -- Auntie Bopha has a boy for you!" She pointed to the other side of the bar, where a slim Asian twink in a flowered shirt was staring at the floor. Black hair, golden skin, a beautiful angelic face. "New to America, two months only. Not much English yet. Name Chehay, means 'sexy,' yes? You like?"
"Well, he is cute."
"Good, good, good! You talk to him, ask for date." She hustled me across the room, where I shook Chehay's slim, soft hand. We had a brief, stumbling conversation before Auntie Bopha interrupted. "Ok, ok, Chehay like, Mr. Muscle Doctor Big Basket like, now date! Good, good!"
We made a date for the next Friday night. Auntie Bopha wouldn't let us grope or kiss.
I slipped my phone number into Chehay's hand, but somehow Auntie Bopha got it and called with demands: "Ok, for date, you must wear nice shoes and tie -- look nice! Take Chehay someplace nice -- no McDonald's! And bring flowers. Otherwise insult. And two Dove Bars!"
Bopha answered the door -- not in drag anymore, just in a flowered shirt and too-tight purple shorts. My heart sank -- was he coming along on our date? But no -- he just put the flowers in water and parked himself in front of the tv with the Dove Bars.
After an intolerably long wait, Chehay appeared, smiling shyly, in a tan shirt with a red tie. He smelled of a sweet, rather sickly cologne. We hugged -- I wanted to kiss, but Bopha cleared his throat ominously.
We had dinner at a Cambodian restaurant a few blocks from Chehay's house, followed by cruising at Ripples. I found that we could communicate in French better than English.
I made him blush by saying mon saucisse veut vous connaître.
Most guys told their coming out story on the first date, but Chehay told me about how when he was ten years old, his entire family was killed by the Pol Pot; he escaped by climbing through an upstairs window onto the roof, and lived on the streets for awhile until a friend took him in. Then, in December 1978, when Vietnam invaded Cambodia, they walked 100 miles through the jungle into Thailand, ending up in a refugee camp in Mai Rut. He was only thirteen years old!
I stared. When I was in my freshman year in college, complaining about the heterosexism in my English class, this small, soft, passive person, with soft hands and a shy smile, was walking through 100 miles of jungle!
Chehay lived in the refugee camp for three years, then was sent to France as part of a refugee relocation program, where he completed secondary school. Then Bopha -- who was really a distant relative -- paid for his flight to America and got him a job. In Cambodia marriages were usually arranged, so Auntie Bopha became a go-between.What could I say after all that? I just held his hand under the table and drank my tea.
When we were cruising at Ripples, we finally had an opportunity to kiss and grope. Chehay was surprisingly soft and fragile. I thought he would break if I hugged him too hard.
And what could we talk about? "Um, do you want to go see The Lost Boys, with Corey Haim?" Everything seemed so trivial!
When we returned to his apartment, Bopha was still there. And he had company -- two elderly women -- real women, not drag queens -- who hugged Chehay, then me, and peppered us with questions in English, French, and Khmer. "Had nice time, yes? Kroupeti mneak ku lok? Est-ce que tu embrasser?"
Finally they adjourned to the couch to drink tea.
"What was that all about?" I asked.
"No worries!" Bopha said. "I tell Chehay's other aunties you make good husband, Mr. Muscle Doctor Big Basket, but they want to see. They say good, good, good! Bedroom time!"
Embarrassed, Chehay looked down at his feet.
"Bedroom time?"
Bopha put our hands together. "Ok, Mr. Big Basket, you wait long enough. You ready, Chehay ready, Jeff Stryker Italian Stallion, yes?"
"Wait -- you're not going to stay here while we..."
"Oh, no, hour only. Then we go home. You stay all night. Good, good!"
Suddenly we were alone in the bedroom. Chehay smiled shyly.
"No," he answered in French. "But two guys is not usual either. They have changed the customs for gays."
I could hear them talking and giggling in the living room. No doubt they could hear us as well.
Twenty minutes later, I was saying "I swear, this has never happened to me before."
I figured it was a combination of the horrors of Chehay's past, the ladies and drag queen waiting outside, the pressure of becoming an instant "husband," and the uncomfortably gender-polarized masculine-feminine thing. Nothing happened, no matter what I tried.
In the morning I snuck out before Chehay had a chance to tell Auntie Bopha that Mr. Muscle Doctor Big Basket was a bust.
See also: A Celebrity Steals My Date